Rembrant's J'Accuse...! (2008)

    Peter Greenaway’s most recent feature length documentary finds him opinionated and cynical.  The subjects of his dissatisfaction are the visually illiterate (re: Generation Y anyone?) who have not the skills to navigate complex paintings nor, as he would likely agree, the desire.  His argument centers around Rembrandt’s The Night Watch, which should come as no surprise to anyone that has at least seen a still from any of his most well-known features.
    From a little box superimposed over much of the film, Greenaway staunchly explicates his mastery of the painting under discussion.  There is no arguing with his authority on the subject matter nor in his deconstruction of the 34 mysteries embedded within the painting.  His affection for the painting, as well as what it represents, is clear.  Why he finds the need to float atop its beauty as a disembodied talking head is still unclear.  Perhaps from this vantage point we are less liable to disagree with our host.  Regardless of his questionable presence, snobbishly looking down his nose at the audience, his argument is sound and convincing.
    A two-hour discussion about a single frame may seem overkill for any tech savvy rug-rat born this side of the 1970’s.  The mass onslaught of images has long ago oversaturated our visual palette and left us partially desensitized to its power.  This is what the film is really about; yet leave it to Greenaway to support his argument with obsessive deconstruction of a truly complex and multi-faceted work of art.
    The visually decadent style we are used to in Greenaway’s fictional narrative finds its well-known source.  He restages the painting and excavates particular elements both in live action and animated cutouts.  The visual intricacies are managed one by one, slowly but surely revealing a larger story.  As the fourth most famous painting in history, the time spent with it is justified.  Needless to say, the shear intrigue Greenaway reveals justifies itself.  Rembradnt’s lauded use of light, the ambiguous and gender-ambiguous details, the x-rays that reveal edits by the artist, and the use of looks to tell the audience a story all contribute to the complexity of this 1642 masterpiece.
    Despite Greenaway’s unnecessarily scolding demeanor, his thoughts are justified.  The modern looker has lost a degree of skill in reading the painted image while at the same time compensated for it with literacy in other areas, say, motion picture.  And regardless of the director’s unending presence, the film is fascinating, entertaining, and endlessly intriguing in the complexity it reveals.  Highly recommended to those interested.

Little Dieter Needs to Fly (1997)

    All Dieter Dengler wanted to do since seeing war planes fly over his city was join them in the skies.  The desire led him to America and to the military where the objective was always another hurdle away.  Finally, he found his way into the cockpit only to be shot down and taken prisoner.  This film is a one-man show of Dengler recounting the horrific torture he endured in Vietnam during the war years.  It is one of the purest stories of survival and triumph of the human will.  (Good lord.)  In all actuality, it is an upfront look endurance of the human spirit against the continued onslaught of true horror.
    Even the usually opinionated and loquacious Herzog struggles to get a word in during Dengler’s accounts.  Save for a question or two, the director must insert his voice overtop images of Dengler and his past.  He examines the archaic military training films, similar to ones shown to Dengler, and questions their teachings and accuracy.  But for the most part, Herzog lets the namesake character tell his own story.
    It is almost disarming, the ease with which Dieter Dengler described his story.  The eagerness to share shines through like a child’s, discovering a fascinating story for the first time.  It is with seemingly practiced nonchalance that he recounts the decapitation of his best friend, and sole surviving companion, at hands of machete wielding enemy.  This being after they shared a single tennis-shoe sole to protect a foot, and days of crawling once the damage to their feet had been too much.
    Upon meeting Dengler we are given a tour of his abode; complete with model airplanes, war honors, and an assortment of collections.  Beneath the floor is stored thousands of pounds of food in 5 gallon plastic buckets, a stock he knows he’ll never need but can sleep soundly knowing he has.  This trait becomes justified, rather quickly, as we see pictures of his body starved for months in the jungle.  The film never discusses any post-traumatic stress related issues but we’d be hard-pressed not to find them.  This makes he modern jungle escapades even more alarming.  Hands bound behind his back he is lead through the uneven jungle terrain that he covered years ago while a prisoner.  Some form of therapy or self-flagellation, the most logical explanation seems that Herzog himself convinced Dengler it would be a good idea.  At the hands of gun-toting Vietnamese he is towed quickly across roots, rocks, and memories of torture.  It is no small wonder that he doesn’t break down mentally into a heap of insanity.
    The film mixes in plenty of aged photographs and films.  Yet for the most part the star is present to tell his story; a story he has undoubtedly told many times before.  His endearing personality is the perfect contrast to the savagery of his tale; the delivery of his past emphasizes its content.  The weight of the story cannot be waived off, as proven by Herzog’s re-visitation in the form of Rescue Dawn.  Unfortunately, the latter film fails indubitably in comparison. 

Stripped (2001)

     The title of this 2001 film is rather straightforward, and discussing in depth the life of a stripper is a tantalizing prospect for any film viewer already admitting to their scopophilic intentions.  The director, Jill Morley, becomes a stripper to gain unprecedented access into the backstage world and mindset of the controversial profession.
    The filmmaker, an aspiring actress, stars front and center from the beginning of her film.  Her voice-over tries just a little to hard to sound sincere and interesting and instead passes into pleading and unwarranted.  She would have done better letting her subjects, and friends, speak for themselves.  Add to this her own personal confessions, akin to half of YouTube’s uploads, and we have a film that seems garnered to promoting its creator.   We could discuss the poor sound quality and handheld camera work that feels misplaced and unpracticed and we have a film that so screams amateur it is hard to get into the story itself.
    This is where the film really misses the mark.  It would be wildly appropriate for the dancers themselves, all girls and women who understand the profession they practice with such refined pondering that they articulate the psychology behind it, to tell the story.  Rather, Morley jumps into the dressing room stuffs a camera in their faces.  The fact that she too is a stripper warranted a sense of companionship; they do not see one another as competition but as friends.  But the story could be told much better without the filmmakers voice coming from behind or in front of the camera.  It is hard not to see it as a self-promoting product.
    We can, however, still absorb a bit of what is happening in this world.  The girls examine themselves, both physically and emotionally, in the context of how they make money.  They make no attempt to hide the fact that they make very good money by working their customers.  It is a game, a routine, a performance where the single dollar bill never leaves their mind; only he who has it matters.  Many recount years later how their sense of self-confidence and power is escalated with years of dancing.  For some, these years bear emotional scars, for others they are shrugged off.
    It is a bit difficult to decide whether the film exploits its subjects.  (Of course, the entire profession is exploitative. Thus the cinematic process of capturing this could be considered exploitation.)  There is not shortage of backstage and onstage nudity, girls discussing their bodies; essentially free shows with no payment to the dancers.  Perhaps a bit counter intuitive, this film could easily be made without ever showing the act itself.  It seems the film only has little more respect for the girls than the men who inhabit the dark and dingy bars.  The film is indeed interesting but misses too much.

Gates of Heaven (1978)

    The first splice of b-roll comes more than twenty minutes into Errol Morris’s debut documentary.  This is in the form of a backhoe excavating pet graves and is as matter-of-factly composed as the preceding interviews.  As apt introduction to the intriguing world of Morris films, the tight 4x3 framing includes all necessary elements and manages to strike a consistent quirkiness that will continue on in the filmmaker’s oeuvre.
    We are introduced to an eclectic grouping of Californians whom all have some stake in the then recent introduction of the much-needed pet cemetery.  Whether they be the family of keepers, the neighboring rendering factory whose business exists on the opposite end of the spectrum, the pet owners whose beloved family members end up in the ground, or the local woman with some connection to the cemetery that rambles for five minutes and leaves any semblance of a pet focused film in the dust.  Such stream of consciousness interviewing has been the epitome of Morris’s infatuation/obsession with interviewing people.  More than any other filmmaker, he has the uncanny ability to find the most interesting of characters.
    Gates of Heaven, fascinatingly, has not only maintained a state of social relevance, but may have even increased in its application to modern day American life.  In a world where Paris Hilton totes her Chihuahua around like a toddler made of gold, where airlines/hotels cater to pet owners, where we care more for dying animals than homeless people and probably spend the money to prove it, a film about the final resting place of our beloved companions could only strike the right chords.  Unless of course, it deviates from the story on the outset, allowing the characters to intermingle in their own thoughts and opinions whether they be pertinent to the topic or not.  Morris is undoubtedly smitten with such outcome and there is no reason the viewer should feel any different.
     Perhaps the promise Werner Herzog made to eat his own shoe should such a film be made (the fact that he did it at the film’s completion is irrelevant) figured in to seeing the film through.  Regardless, it is a story, or rather a narrative of our culture, that is relevant to understanding said culture and telling of our priorities.  Morris strikes a pertinent chord with his first feature length documentary and it is an oh so delicious taste of things to come.

I'm Still Here (2010)

    The existence of Casey Affleck’s pseudo-documentary about the disintegration of real life celebrity Joaquin Phoenix bears more significance than the content of the film itself.  Despite consistent efforts to suggest that the public at large was uncertain about Phoenix’s abrupt career change, only the most gullible of all would have believed what is now being called an elaborate hoax.  For many it has come as a big surprise the Affleck announced the documentary as false.
    The piece itself is inherently self-conscious.  It includes snippets of Phoenix’s public appearances as the Unabomber that seemed to mark the arrival of aspiring R&B artist JP.  The star constantly refers to the film as it is being made, and it addresses all the questions that the public had while it was being made.  In a world of post-modern media, plagued by reality television and Jackass inspired stunts, this film fits in, and is doubtless inspired by both.  Phoenix, as both star and character, is aware of what is happening both in and out of the film.  The character is conscious of the perhaps poor decisions precluding and following his acting status.  Naturally, he numbs his woes in cocaine and hookers.
    I don’t mean to suggest that no thought went into a film with such obvious immaturity.  The fact of the matter is, however, that this creative team had a chance to come up with something absolutely fascinating.  And those that have the desire will admire the Borat-inspired renegade.  And certainly Phoenix’s near self-loathing and acknowledgment thereof is neither anything to shake a stick at, nor something that other actors would be very willing to commit themselves to.
    Thus the concept and execution of the film is intriguing; very meta in story and natural in capture.  It is a plausible if not believable story of the collapse of a figure so steadfastly projected in the public eye that everything they do becomes significant.  Our celebrity culture celebrates just such acts of celebrity as pretending to be yourself for a documentary about your own collapse.  Social commentary or self-promotion?  I will say that I have confidence in both creative minds to be conscious of just what they were doing.
    When you get to the film itself, though, it seems rather drab.  Phoenix is overweight, verbally abusive, mentally jumbled.  His new pastime is getting high, whining in self-importance, and trying to get P. Diddy to produce his album.  Not the biggest of deals.  So when we examine the arena surrounding the film, that it is shrouded in uncertain truth (and inherently autobiographical to some extent), that it is real or not real, that we cannot pin down and define it easily, the whole project takes on more significance.  Unfortunately for the duo, Banksy’s Exit Through the Gift Shop does it so much better.

Between the Folds (2008)

     There’s much more to origami than the simple folded crane that the expert paper folders in this film must consider to be an outdated cliché.  For slightly less than an hour Vanessa Gould explores the depths of papers folding, traversing its real world application from its artistic beginnings.  ‘Life itself is folded’ becomes the hypothesis whether or not Gould started out with such intentions.  The budding leaves of a tree, even DNA itself can be recreated with squares of paper.
    Unless one partakes in the origami world, it is unlikely that they realize the old and new school mindsets exist even here.  The old folders have crafted their art for years, learning from one another and mainly from experience.  The younger generation is computer savvy and uses the underlying algorithms to aid in complicated constructions.  Their obsession is with complexity; the more folds the better.  And they are impressive indeed, two foot long dragons with a thousand scales, life like human figures, and of course animals.  One old folder’s interest can be found at the other end of the spectrum; simplicity.  He creates abstract designs with only a fold or two and is not concerned with the realism of the object.  How can a paper elephant even be realistic?
    We meet a folder whose hour-long creations produce movement; spinning like a top or popping in and out.  Manipulation of a 2-D plane allows it to exist in two additional dimensions.  We also meet a genius.  A boy with ponytail and glasses, taught and trained by his father with ponytail and glasses, who together solved an old problem; which shapes can be made by folding a paper and then making one single straight cut?  The answer: all of them.  But the boy’s interest lies not in folding papers, that is a hobby, he is more interested in real world applications like the folding of an airbag that results in the most logical and flat design.
    The mathematics involved in origami range from the simple to the complex, numerous professors have started using paper folding to teach.  It may sound absurd that something so simple as a paper frog that hops could hold answers to bigger questions about life.  But after all, folding is a unique property not inherent to all things, and as such, it can tell us much.  In this documentary that demands and deserves to be twice as long, Gould explores the nature of life as materialized in the art of paper folding.

The Endless Summer (1966)

     Part documentary, part travelogue, part extreme sports film, Bruce Brown’s immortal 1966 creation follows two surfers around the world on their quest for perfect waves during an endless summer.  The film is incredibly archaic, a satisfying and occasionally cringe inducing reminder of the innocence and nostalgia of yesteryear.  The market now saturated with extreme sports docs capitalizing on whatever is in style, we would be hard pressed to find a film that shares the fascination and lightheartedness found here.
    Brown narrates the film with an eager and informative style befitting any travel film of the fifties and sixties where idyllic beaches and paradise lands are captured in grainy 16mm and populated by vintage cars and clothing.  Not only does he take liberty with the on-screen actions, but he seems to create an entirely non-existent back-story.  But it’s all in good fun.  The puns, both visual and verbal, floweth in full accord with complete disregard for political correctness or cultural sensitivity.  The innocence of nearly five decades passed is front and center as the surfers visit primitive cultures, deserted beaches, and sights uncommon to the average nuclear family.  It’s a relief that much of Brown's narration can be waived off as old school, today it would be seen as ignorant.
    The film is a breeze to watch.  Much of it consists of countless surfers navigating the lengths of their board with skilled agility and a showman’s confidence.  On the best of beaches, the length of their rides surpasses that of Brown camera magazine, minute upon minute of perfectly formed waves washing by the thousands onto an unpopulated beach.  The documentary is also a who’s who list of surfers from around the globe; Brown seems to take pride in naming each and every one, as well as their specialty.
    It is a document to years long gone, to a world long gone where the simple joys need not be validated and traveling country to country was as safe as riding the ocean waves without having to worry about being demolished by floating trash.  This film’s longevity is not surprising and is requisite material for documentary, sports, and surf enthusiasts.

Exit Through the Gift Shop (2010)

    The film’s credits read like a who’s who of (in)famous street artists and for anyone who has paid attention to the resounding noise this scene has made, the names will be very familiar.  They are captured in direct contact with the artists themselves, both in casual conversation as well as law-defying theatrics.  The opening images create a montage of reckless abandon, a society seemingly falling apart, yet one full of life.  For the viewer, it is an inspiring and exciting parade of juvenile delinquents brandishing their cityscapes with more life than the last million passersby.  Street artists escape authorities, install work, ooze creativity, and give the public a free show of body of works more developed than many others.  The opening sequence of internet clips and home footage is enough to inspire a heated debate about the legitimacy of graffiti vandalism, immediately offset by its vast commercialism and the branding of street art culture.  Hence this film.
    We rather quickly find Banksy himself addressing the camera, cloaked in anonymity (he is, after all, a Criminal), and reporting on the nature of his film.  We are introduced to Thierry, an obsessive and compulsive videographer whose camera remains open more than his eyes, who has a house full of thousands of tapes, and who just happens to have an artistic cousin that goes by Space Invader.  Thus our un-reluctant cameraman arrives conveniently at the near-birth of the street art movement and seems the perfect accomplice to document the temporary, illegal, and most culturally responsive of all art forms.  If you haven’t seen this film, stop reading.

Pumping Iron (1977)

Yes, this is the Arnold documentary where the now world famous strongman/actor/governor compares the act of weightlifting to sexual gratification.  And such comparisons never hurt his political career.  While he may not show it now, in his aged and endured state, back in the day he was ripped from head to toe, more so than in Terminator.

            Labeled as a documentary, there are many confessed falsities revealed in a follow-up documentary about the film’s making.  Regardless, the content within is energetic and testosterone infused, making it all the more entertaining and impressive.  There seems a natural peculiarity in the sport itself, where one builds loads of muscle then poses on stage to scores of screaming fans and everyday weaklings.  Perhaps there is something vicarious in a muscle-bound mammoth of a man displays the potential of the human body, a potential that none of us normies will ever reach.

            At the same time there is just as much oddity in the event.  It is like a freakshow, a collection of strange people, who in this case have something in common.  But unlike that malformed or bizarre, these people have intentionally transformed their body into something more.  And more is better.

            The film creates a battle between Arnold and an East Coast nemesis who weighs in at 275 pounds of solid muscle.  His father is his trainer, he is partially deaf, and his gym is like a torture chamber where he gruels away the days.  On the other side of the country is Arnold pumping weights at Gold’s Gym and Venice Beach and posing in photo shoots with bikini-clad women.  And this rivalry was created for the film, regardless of whether it would have existed itself; it was embellished by the filmmakers for the sake of conflict.

            This is not altogether a bad thing, but labeling it a documentary stretches the definition to a degree.  A degree that, in my opinion, is not even necessary in the first place.  The body building culture, which is still effectively portrayed throughout the film, is fascinating in its own right.  Legions of screaming fans and scores of muscle magazines and groups of the manliest of men encouraging each other to lift a little more.  Much of this film is consists of groaning interludes with specific music that, if one were to close their eyes, could be mistaken for an old-school adult film.

            But ‘tis not the case and this 1977 feature is as motivating as it is curious.  A definite must for the cult fan, doc snob, and muscle head. 

Winged Migration (2001)

            For a film about birds flying, Winged Migration is one of the most memorizing and choreographed pieces of documentation ever conceived.  As a product of human accomplishment, it showcases the much more amazing accomplishments of the natural world.  The yearly migration of millions of birds from across the world is captured in unprecedented intimacy and detail.  It will likely stand as a supreme document of the natural world and shall remain long after many of its subjects have perished.

            The film opens on a river.  It is surrounded by lush greenery only moments after being assaulted by driving snow.  The time-lapse reveals a flock of geese about to commence the titular narrative.  One remains behind, its foot caught in a fishing net, but is saved by a young boy.  It is one of the minor points of misfortune in the film.  The human element, already inherent in the existence of the film, is unnecessary in its content.  Save for the moments of destruction, hunting and oil spills, the birds remain detached from the Homo sapien confines.  For some reason, and perhaps providing a point of connection that for many makes the film worth watching, the filmmakers felt the need to include us.  Regardless, and only aided by the carefully chosen soundtrack, we identify the human characteristics present in the birds, their social and personal behaviors, and ascribe them to ourselves.  It should be no point of contention that we are part of the animal world, and like the bird that devours the young of its fellow avian, we have stamped our own brand of destruction upon their world.

Sherman's March (1986)

            With camera perched on shoulder, Ross McElwee set out to retrace and document Sherman’s infamous March to the Sea.  Yet shortly before beginning his expedition he found himself suddenly single and at a loss for such a status.  The documentary that grew must be far from the historical reconstruction McElwee envisioned and is undoubtedly far more interesting.

            The journey, instead of navigating a trail of destruction, navigates a trail of destruction and reconstruction as the director encounters past loves and recent infatuations.  Perhaps his thin physique and heavily bearded face make him ample target for being set up.  Or perhaps his deflective camera, which allows him to maintain a distance between himself and the social world, is read by those around him as such.  Either way, McElwee falls subject to numerous experiments with good-looking southern girls whom he is at times expected, at other times demanded, to woo and wed and propagate. 

            The personal exploration of love lost and found is inherently emotional as McElwee tries to reason for missed chances and uncertain futures.  The onscreen dialogue accompanied by voice over narration predates YouTube confessionals by more than a decade and succeeds far more than any superficial v-log.  It is hard not to feel bad for the socially precarious filmmaker yet his tone is never self-deprecating, self-pitying, or self-effacing. 

            The final product is testament to the uncertain nature of non-fictional storytelling.  The filmmaker as subject has certainly been seen, yet McElwee’s 1986 entry comes off as the most sincere and cathartic.  His interactions maintain a sense of observation and confusion.  His narration emphasizes the thoughts in

Kids + Money (2008)

            This 2008 short documentary is as eye opening as it is repulsive.  The state of American consumerism and self-indulgence is spewed from the mouth of a dozen Los Angeles teenagers whose preoccupation with wealth supersedes their attention to race.  Having been bred in a culture of heightened awareness to financial status has more demanded than created the infatuation with presentation and social awareness.

            The numerous talking heads are usually smack dab in the middle of an expansive abode or amongst hoards of frivolous clothing purchases.  One girl, hyper-aware of social stratification at her high school, models the various clique clothing while articulating the general expense.  Another boy sorts through stacks of $300 jeans and dozens of $100-300 dollars sneakers scattered across is floor.  On numerous occasions the kids recount their general expenditures, whether it be hundreds of dollars for casual shopping or the same amount for pre and post-prom activities.  And while a few kids provide the monetary supplement themselves, one girl scoffs at the idea that she will ever have to work.

            Perhaps the most interesting thing we see in these kids is a semi-developed attention to social stratification and organization.  Miniature sociologists with surprising scrutiny.  They identify, clearly, the importance of money in everything they say and do.  At the same time, for many of them, the dollars directly inhibit their attention to everything else.  A day at school is composed of gathering visual data about everyone else’s clothing choices.  Their approval depends on its quality, uniqueness, and brand. 

The Endurance

One of the most amazing and grueling survival stories is retold in George Butler’s 2000 documentary. This is the same guy that brought us Pumping Iron 1 and 2 and basically introduced us all to Arnold. That aside, this film marks the end of an apparent eleven-year hiatus from filmmaking. Regardless of the fact that this film seems well constructed and visually stunning with its inclusion of historic photographs, the story would be compelling if told over a black screen. Ernest Shackleton’s failed Antarctic endeavor is both devastating and captivating. Well more than a year spent navigating the ice flows of the southern continent, most of the time fighting for survival, did little to dampen his determination and will. In what should have been a tragic misadventure resulting in many deaths was instead a laborious rescue operation resulting in zero deaths.

Butler’s film is at once jaw-dropping and inspiring thanks to Shackleton’s story. This film is a testament to the medium’s ability to capture the power of the human spirit as well as the intensity of the world we occupy. Butler would follow this up with Shackleton’s Antarctic Adventure the next year.

The Impact of No Impact

It is not now, nor has it ever been, our intention to ignore the presence and social/cinematic relevance of the documentary on this here Internet website. That being so, we wish to apologize for the lengthy duration of which the important film mode has been absent. In all seriousness, we pride ourselves in watching many a movie, be they shorts, independents, foreign, and of course the generic Hollywood garbage. So, without further adu, we can now officially claim documentary as part of our analytical ouvre, if you will. And you can expect more where that came from.

In what is presented as a revolutionary idea, one man in New York City attempts to live an entire year without making any environmental impact. The idea is as preposterous as his confidence that it can be done. So with what seems minimal motivation aside from the perfect gimmick for his next book, Colin Beaven sets out to phase into a zero impact calendar year. Now, it should be pointed out from the forefront that the possibility of completely eliminating one’s impact is nil. This is not to say we should not do as much as we can to be environmentally conscious, but that the idea of completely eliminating one’s presence is absurd. Anyway, Beaven questions himself from the outset as to whether the proposed experiment is even possible. And, of course, it is not possible to live a year without impact when halfway through you finally turn out the lights.

Beaven brings his family along for the adventure. His wife, a reality TV and clothing obsessed ideology consumer uses her one last splurge on a pair of $975 boots. It seems, not far into the experiment, that her sole occupation with agreeing to participate is to realize her fantasy of being a reality star, a role she seems to be rather comfortable in and natural at. Her cheating throughout the year consists of buying drinks and acquiring ice. I have little but praise for the family for consciously attempting to better those around them but acknowledge the naivety of their grandiose plans.

Regardless of intent, be they heightening books sales, warning the public, personal experimentation, etc., the Beaven’s notoriety will do little to influence those around them. The film calls attention to the vastly varied reactions to their condition. From the already environmentally conscious who see the couple as giving them a bad image to the website comments telling him to shove it, the public at the very least took notice. Yet far from sudden collective revelation, the society at large will sit idle, as they have always done, accustomed to big screen television, elevators, endless water, and their every demand at their fingertips. The film brings to attention, through Beaven’s realization, that the notion of living without impact is a direct assault on the way we expect to live. It is a direct assault on the lives of those that worry little about anyone but themselves.

Beaven himself seems not too distant from those that know nothing outside of city life. The idea that one could be connected to the earth was a foreign one. The realization the calendar year in fact comes from the natural cycles of the earth was pathetically surprising. He points out what seems to be a general aversion to life, a desire for the strict and formulaic, the rigid and structured way of doing things. He helps the audience realize, hopefully even the ignorant ones, that we have been bred and raised to need everything. Our economic system and way of life demands it. Our country requires it. Ironically, and unfortunately, our lives depend on it.

We cannot, even for a second, let ourselves think that this cannot be changed. Beaven points out midway through the film that community has seemed to dissolve. He notices the lack of accountability for those around us, a lifestyle that we have become accustomed to. The film, far from being a lesson in how to specifically help the environment, is instead a bold attention-caller to the need to see to those around you. This is precisely what Beaven does, at least in delivery. We could describe it as self-less, albeit not entirely so. Or rather, we could describe as educated, the opposite of ignorant, responsible. We could posit it to be the objective that every single person owes to every other person.

Now, we don’t need a morality lesson, and the film is not as preaching as my writing has identified it as. And Beaven is not too thorough in his zero impact attempts. Instead, the content the film encompasses and the weight of the issues it deals with is not to be overlooked. No Impact Man can be added to the lengthening list of films that everyone should see, not to entertain themselves, but to better their relationship with others.